Smoke Rings
by E.Phoard
Summary: This focuses primarily on how Bates's incarceration affects the household, and how they intend to get him released, but has some interesting little side trips that have nothing to do with that at all. A little something for everyone with a healthy dose of the supernatural.
1. Chapter 1

This story is based on a conversation with my mother, and was written, in large part, by her. I am responsible for the John and Anna sections, and general buffing and polishing. I know where it is supposed to go, but I'm not sure if either of us will finish it. Her vision is huge, and I thought this deserved to see daylight (I'm posting without her knowledge or consent). A brief historical tidbit: some liberties were taken with the date of the Cottingley fairy photographs. They were taken between 1917 and 1920, and Conan Doyle's first article on them appeared in the Christmas 1920 issue of _The Strand_. We needed it to happen a little earlier. For further details, please see Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Coming of the Fairies_, 1922/2006 reprint, University of Nebraska Press.

Spring, 1920

York Prison

John Bates lay on his narrow cot and tried to stretch his bad leg. The damp spring had turned the dull ache in his thigh into full-fledged rheumatism. It didn't help that he wasn't allowed to use a cane in prison. If Anna and Lord Grantham ever succeeded in getting his conviction overturned, he wouldn't be able to walk at all. But who was he kidding; Lord Grantham wasn't that powerful. That had been one of John Murray's many mistakes in his defense.

John had tried to be hopeful in the time leading up to his trial for Anna's sake. She was so positive, so fearless, it was persuasive. He knew the evidence against him was quite damaging. Everything looked bad, and he still didn't understand why the crown hadn't dragged Anna into the middle of the whole sordid mess. At least she was spared that indignity. At least he had his life, such as it was. He could see her once a week across a table for an hour. It was almost like the old days at Downtown, before Vera came back. Vera. If there was any such thing as an afterlife, which he sincerely doubted, he hoped Vera was happy. She'd won.

Later that same evening

Downton Abbey

"What in flamin' hell you doing with that thing, Daisy?"

Since standing up to Mrs. Patmore and spending more time with Mr. Mason, Daisy's confidence had grown, but Miss O'Brien could still make her jump and shake. Daisy clutched the Ouija board to her chest, her eyes like saucers.

"I…I was just…"

"It's okay Daisy," drawled Thomas, cigarette dangling from his lips. "We know you were just trying to get in touch with sweet Willie, weren't you?" He winked at Miss O'Brien.

Daisy went dark red. Mentions of William and their brief marriage still upset her.

"No…I wasn't…I just…"

"Oh get over it girl! We all know! You just married him because he was a nice boy and Mrs. Patmore told you to! It weren't a lie! Now give that thing here and let's have us some fun!" Miss O'Brien grabbed the board from Daisy and placed it on the table. Lily, Thomas, and the new footman, Edward, joined her, placing their hands on the dial.

"Now, who's out there?" O'Brien asked the spirit world.

The dial didn't move at first. The gang looked at each other, debating who should accuse whom of not pushing it or holding it wrong, when suddenly a window slammed shut and the room turned cold. Their wrists all snapped together to V….E….R….A in rapid, jerky succession.

They all jumped back in horror! Vera!

Mrs. Patmore gathered herself and asked, "What do you want?"

The dial again it started to move under their fingers.. This time it moved rapidly all over the board, finally settling on the letters R….I….C….H….A….R….D. Thomas was the first to spell these letters out loud and when he said the name Richard, they all looked confused as none of them could think of anyone named Richard.

Mrs. Patmore had regained her confidence and asked another question.

"Who did you say? Richard?"

As they all stared at the board the dial started moving again. This time it went to the letters T…H…O…M…A….S. Mrs. Patmore was spelling the letters out loud as the others looked at the board.

Thomas wasn't even paying attention until all the eyes in the room were on him.

"What? What'd I do?"

"Apparently you killed Vera Bates." Miss O'Brien had gone white looking at him.

"What?" Thomas stood. "What? Why would I kill that woman? I'm no fan of John Bates, but I have better things to do than frame him for murder." He looked around the room. They were all staring at him. "It was you pushing it, wasn't it, O'Brien?"

"No, Thomas, it wasn't me." Her voice was almost fearful.

"Well then, it was you Mrs. Patmore, all along, like that time at Christmas with William…."

"What? That weren't William?" Daisy's face fell.

"Would anyone like to tell me what is going on in here?" They all looked at each other as Mrs. Hughes entered the room.

Later that same evening

Lady Mary's room

"Thank you Anna." She smiled at her maid in the mirror as Anna tied off the end of her braid.

"Anna, I was thinking, when Matthew and I marry, I'll need a proper lady's maid."

"Of course, my lady."

"I was hoping you might consider taking the position. You see, I don't think I could stand to break in a new maid after we've been together for so long, and I'd miss you."

Anna smiled. "Thank you, my lady."

"And it would mean more time to yourself. When Mr. Bates is released I'm sure that will be nice…"

Her voice trailed off as Anna's eyes fell. If Mr. Bates was released. Mary knew that was a long shot, and she knew that if Mr. Bates was ever released if he was in any condition to work, no one other than her father or Matthew would employ him. It would be hard enough for Anna to find work as the wife of a convicted murdered, conviction overturned or not. But Anna mustn't think it was pity.

"Please think about it." Mary smiled, hoping Anna would.

"I will my lady. I'll talk to Mr. Bates about it when I see him tomorrow."

"Of course. Goodnight, Anna."

"Goodnight, my lady."

Mary remembered she needed to ask her mother something before she went to bed. She walked down the hall, trying to find the right words, and stopped suddenly before knocking. She heard her parents' voices raised. She froze with her hand on the knob.

"You did what with a maid? Oh Robert, how could you? It's bad enough you spent the entire war stomping around like a spoiled child in your soldier suit, it's bad enough you insulted my nationality at every opportunity, but a maid? What will your mother say?"

Even later the same evening

Anna's bedroom

Anna sat on the edge of her bed. She no longer had to share a room. When her marriage to John was announced, within minutes of his arrest, some changes had taken place in the household. Lord Grantham offered her the cottage he had promised them, but she turned it down, saying she'd rather wait to move in when John was released. Lord Grantham agreed that it wouldn't be long and the cottage would be kept in readiness. Even after it was clear John wouldn't be returning anytime soon, Lord Grantham continued to pay Anna John's wages. He told her it was the least he could do to take care of her in John's place after all John had done for him. Mr. Murray had helped to find a tenant for John's house in London. Now that it was associated with Vera, Anna hoped to never set foot in it again. She'd been to London and taken all that John had identified as important to him. Everything else could stay in the house for the tenant or be sold.

It was lucky she didn't have a roommate; John's things took over the other half of her room. She had cleaned out his room soon after his arrest. She knew it was silly, and that Mrs. Hughes would wonder why they were short a pillowcase, but she kept the pillow from his bed. It smelled like him, and she couldn't bear the thought of his scent disappearing, some unknown putting their head where his had been. Mrs. Hughes never asked. One particularly dark day, she had picked out the suit she would bury him in if it came to that. The camel one with the blue shirt he wore for their wedding. He had been so happy that day. He had been so beautiful. She had waited seven years for that day, and she was still waiting.

She thought she would accept Lady Mary's offer. She would miss Lady Mary when she left, and a change might do her good. Lady's maid to the future Countess of Grantham was certainly better than housekeeper-in-waiting to the current Countess of Grantham, and Anna was tired of waiting.

Even later

Cora's room

Cora was wide awake. Robert was sleeping in his dressing room, and she hoped it was comfortable enough for him because he'd be in there for the foreseeable future. She couldn't believe what he had told her. She would never forgive this. Never! How could he? That it had all happened when she supposed to be dying of flu made it even worse. How could Robert do this to her and to his family? What would others say if they knew? She was tired of being Lady Grantham. Divorce wasn't an option of course, but she was still young, and she hoped, reasonably attractive. There were other options for revenge.

The next morning

The Courtyard

"I hear there was quite a row last night between His Lordship and your lady," Thomas had just perfected blowing smoke in circles.

"Did you hear that for yerself, or did the master tell you?" Miss O'Brien had perfected the skill years ago, when Thomas was still a lad.

"You know he don't tell me nothing, not like he did old Batesy. I was listening at the door." His grammar tended to slip when they were alone.

"That's the best way to learn. So what'd you hear?"

"Well, we all know Jane was after more than just a job…."

Later that morning

The Dower House

"Mary dear, are you sure you heard correctly? Listening at keyholes is very inaccurate but can be a most useful skill, if honed properly."

Mary sighed. "Yes, Granny, I'm sure. Papa told Mama he had an affair with one of the maids and was now sending her money to support the child."

Violet sighed. "I thought I raised him better than to carry on with the hired help. Do you know which maid? Not that coarse red-haired one, is it?"

"No, I didn't hear which maid, but it wasn't Ethel. We can obviously rule out Anna, and Daisy of course and never O'Brien." Mary visibly shuddered.

"Of course dear, none of them have recently been in a delicate condition, though was some concern when that maid of yours secretly married that lame convict…."

"Granny! I've asked Anna to come with me when Matthew and I are married."

"Good. She's a fool if she doesn't accept."

Mary sighed again. "Yes, but what about Papa and this maid? What are we going to do?"

Violet shook her head. "I'll ring for tea."

Later that same day

York Prison Mess Hall

John stirred at the bowl in front of him. At some point, it may have been beef. Not any more. Anna had looked better today. She was wearing blue, and her new hat. An hour wasn't enough time, but then he didn't have anything new to tell her, other than he loved her and didn't deserve her. He hoped she took the new job with Lady Mary. It would do her good. He wondered if it would seem ungrateful to Lord Grantham to fire Mr. Murray. There was a lot to the law, and one man couldn't be expected to know it all. Maybe Mr. Crawley would know someone younger, better…no, if he did he would have mentioned him earlier…

There was the new guy. He was looking at John and asking Roberts a question. Maybe John should pay attention.

"Who was that blond number visiting Bates? That his daughter or something?"

John heard Roberts telling the new guy, Mclean he thought, to shut up and not mention it, but she was Mrs. Bates. Roberts had made that mistake as well, and John had encouraged him to redirect his thinking. John had kept his hands to himself; he had more to lose then. He didn't need to walk into a trial for murder with a history of violence against other prisoners. Anna had brought him his copy of Seneca. He had discovered Seneca the last time he was in prison. The first time he was in prison.

"That's his wife? Whoa, Batesy, how'd you manage that one?"

John poked at his stew again. He felt his rage building. Roberts was trying to reason with Mclean, urging him to leave it alone.

"Gentleman's gentleman won't hurt me, besides, he's an old cripple. I just want to know how he landed that sweet little blond!"

John heard his mother's voice. Temper, Johnny. Temper. John had seen Mclean's wife. He had a right to be jealous. Mrs. Mclean was short, stout, bosom up to her chin and hat jammed low on her forehead. Anna was graceful, her swanlike neck…More importantly, John had noticed Mclean looking at Anna, at that would never do. His fist clenched around his spoon. Temper Johnny.

"What's a matter Bates, she too fine a lady to let you..."

As Mclean made a crude gesture, John pushed himself to his feet. His leg would punish him, but he didn't care. He reached across the table and pulled Mclean up by the front of his shirt, dishes flying from the table. He hadn't given into rage in years, and it felt good.

"The key word there, Mclean, is lady." He shook him once. This felt right. "Yes, my wife is much younger than me and far better than I could ever hope to deserve, but she is a lady, and you will remember that and in the future restrict your comments about her or any of her many fine qualities accordingly. In fact, I think it would be better, smarter, if you simply didn't mention her. Be assured if you do, I will hurt you. Cripple or not, I will destroy every bone in your worthless, stinking body if you so much as look at Anna ever again. Believe me, I can and I will."

John held him in the air for a minute. He stank. John stank. He hadn't had a proper wash since his trial. For Anna to have to see him like this, in this stinking hellhole. Damn Vera. He started to lower him. Mclean wasn't worth it. John reconsidered. He lifted him and shoved him through the air and watched as he hit the next table with a thud. Anna was.

Downton Abbey

The Next Morning

Cora's bedroom

"Edith dear," Cora was pacing, "I've decided you and I will return to Newport with your grandmother after Mary's wedding."

Edith looked out the window. She'd never been to America, but things were just starting to move along with Sir Anthony and she had hoped…

"Edith, dear," her mother sat next to her and took her hands, "Sir Anthony may not know what he wants, and there will come a time when you may have to act. Newport will either spur him into action, or lead you to an entirely different life." They both smiled. Edith nodded, blinking back tears.

"What about Papa? Is he coming too?" Edith noticed her mother hesitated and looked down before answering.

"No, dear, he'll be staying here. What with the war, and the stress of Bates's trial, and Mary's wedding, he needs some time to himself." Edith wasn't convinced. "And you'll enjoy America. We'll do some travelling, see the different areas." Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "It will be an adventure, just the Levinson ladies."

Same morning

The grounds

Robert was also up early. He couldn't remember the last time he was exiled to his dressing room, other than by illness. He and Isis had taken an early walk around the grounds. With Bates gone, he sometimes felt Isis was his only friend. He thought he was going insane. What had possessed him to kiss Jane? He loved Cora and the girls, but there was an undeniable attraction to Jane. He knew it wasn't uncommon for gentlemen to do more than kiss a maid, but he had always held himself to a higher standard. At least he wouldn't have to see her again, and at least he was able to help her look after her boy. Isis wanted to chase a squirrel. Robert sighed. Dogs were so simple, so happy. He had so many privileges, such a blessed life, and he couldn't be happy. If he could ever face Bates again, which he doubted, he hoped he could thank him for preventing him from making a complete fool of himself that night.

That afternoon

Mr. Carson's Pantry

"Thank you, Daisy, that will be all," Mr. Carson intoned as the poor girl scurried from the room.

Mrs. Hughes closed the door as she and Mrs. Patmore sat. It was really the most curious story she'd heard. The spirit of Mrs. Bates accusing Sir Richard Carlisle and Thomas of her murder. She just didn't know what to think.

"Well, if you ask me, Mr. Carson, there's nothing in that board. Someone just pushed it to have a bit of fun, and I think we can guess who it was."

Mr. Carson drummed in his fingers together. "Indeed, Mrs. Patmore, I think we can. And I certainly can't lend any credence to Vera Bates speaking from beyond the grave, especially if it helped Mr. Bates."

Mrs. Hughes wasn't so sure. That woman was a nasty piece of work, if ever there was, but if anyone wasn't going to keep quiet and dead it was her. Mrs. Hughes never believed in spirits or any such nonsense, though she had an aunt back in Argyll who swore she saw the ghost of her grandfather out in the garden every year on the anniversary of his death.

Mr. Carson turned to her. "You've been awfully quiet, Mrs. Hughes, what do you think?"

She took a deep breath. "Usually I wouldn't give it a second thought. It just sounds like such nonsense, but…but this time…I know you'll both think I've gone daft, but this time…if there's any possibility at all in it, we have to look into it. We owe it them, to Anna and poor Mr. Bates."

Anna. Mrs. Hughes hadn't expected Anna to be back to her old self, and she hadn't expected forgiveness after what she had said at the trial, but to see Anna wasting away, spending all her free time alone in her room or in the courtyard just broke Mrs. Hughes's heart. At one time, Mrs. Hughes had planned to groom Anna as her replacement. She knew Anna had no family, and tended to think of her more as a daughter than a staff member. Ordinarily Mrs. Hughes would have taken steps to break up any budding romance, but she saw immediately things between Anna and Mr. Bates were different than what she was usually faced with from the maids. Maybe if she'd known he was married….

"What are you suggesting, Mrs. Hughes, that we find a medium to take the statement of someone speaking from a Ouija board?" Mr. Carson was incredulous.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright? I can send Daisy up with some tea and shortbread if you'd like a lie down?" Mrs. Patmore looked worried. "Or maybe you'd like something stronger?"

"No, I'm fine Mrs. Patmore." Mrs. Hughes swallowed. She had a bottle of Oban in her sitting room for later. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. After everything those two have been through, we owe it to them to explore everything, no matter how daft it seems. Who am I to say it isn't Vera Bates from beyond the grave?"

The same day

The dining room

Robert and Mary lingered in the dinning room, waiting until Cora and Edith were out of sight. Even after her talk with her grandmother, she was not willing to let what she overheard rest. Maybe this was what her father had meant when he told her she wasn't the first in the family to make a mistake.

"Papa, is everything alright?"

He looked startled. "Yes Mary, of course it is. Why shouldn't it be?"

Mary raised an eyebrow. She would play that game with most people on most topics, but this was serious.

"Well, last night, I went to Mama's room at bedtime, but stopped when I heard raised voices." She stared pointedly at him. The vein on his neck was quivering.

"How dare you! You should be ashamed of yourself! Listening at keyholes! What would your grandmother say?"

They jumped as Mr. Carson cleared his voice and announced the arrival of the Dowager Countess.

"Well, Robert, since you asked, I'd congratulate the girl for developing a valuable and important skill."

Later that evening

Cora's bedroom

O'Brien had just left, and Cora was finally able to have some time to herself. She had not mentioned America to her yet. Determined as she was to leave for a time, she knew she had to wait until after Mary was settled. Cora sighed and nestled under the blankets. She was tired of doing the right thing for the Family, but this was Mary. Mary needed her.

She heard a knock, and sighed.

"Cora? May I…may I come in?"

She didn't answer.

"Please?"

It would serve him right to make him stand outside her door in his pajamas begging, but she was better than that. She sighed again.

"Yes Robert, come in."

He looked so nervous she nearly forgave him. She stifled a smile. Revenge might actually be more fun if she took it here…

"Cora, I…I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

She raised an eyebrow and turned a page. "I could think of a few things."

Robert chuckled. "I think the war and your illness and this business with Bates has had a worse affect on me than I wanted to admit. I think we could do with a change. What if after Mary's wedding, we took a honeymoon of sorts of our own? Perhaps the Rivera? It's been years, and after all we've been through, and after all I've put you through, I think we need a change a scenery."

Cora glanced up from her book, but didn't look at him. A change of scenery. She did long to see Newport again, but revenge might be sweeter with Robert in toe. This could fun. She put on her sweetest smile and reached for his open hand.

"I think, Robert, that's an intriguing idea."

A week later

Mr. Carson's pantry

"Well, here they are." Edward placed a stack of old issues of _The Strand_ on the table.

"Thank you, Edward, that will be all."

"You'll give them back, won't you?" The boy was nervous around Mr. Carson still.

"Yes, I'll give them back. Now don't you have work to do."

Edward scurried out.

"Well, Mrs. Hughes, here we go. I think it was a fairly recent issue. Last summer if I recall."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "I never thought I'd be looking through magazines to see pictures of fairies." She picked up a copy and began to leaf through it. "I never thought I'd think hiring a medium was a good idea." She sighed. "I never thought I'd get a good and honest man condemned and ruin the life of….." She stared into the distance.

"No, but we never can tell where life might lead us, can we? When I was on stage with…well, with this lot here, I never thought I'd be the butler in one of the grandest houses in England, but here I am." He showed her a page featuring some of his former colleagues. "She hasn't aged well at all…." Mrs. Hughes wondered what the woman in the photograph had looked like in her prime.

"Here it is. I never thought a man as reasonable and respected as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would believe in fairies. This is madness." She was riveted by the pictures, so obviously paper.

"Wouldn't you? I thought you Scots went in for things like that." His lips twitched as he raised an eyebrow.

Mrs. Hughes slapped him across the knee with the magazine. "Well, we do have our fairies, but not these wee flowery things. And they look like paper! I can't believe he thinks they're real!"

"Indeed. Here's the name of the medium. I'll telephone right away."

"Good. I just want it to be over."

Same day

York prison visitors room

"A fight?"

"He made a gesture."

"Is that why he looks so nervous?"

"I hope so. And it wasn't really a fight."

"You attacked him?"

"He insulted you."

Anna was wearing her blue dress and that white blouse with the lace. He saw the bracelet he had given her for her birthday those many years ago sneaking out below her sleeve. Maybe if he tried to reach her foot with his…

"Well, enough of this. You'll never guess what's new with Mr. Molesley."

John would prefer not to. Sniveling, servile, free Molesley. He should have hit him with that blasted shoehorn when he had the chance. He smiled at Anna.

"I'll try. He got Mr. Crawley a new shaving brush."

"No."

"His father grew a giant beanstalk and they're selling tours."

She grinned and rolled her eyes. It was their anniversary, but neither wanted to say so. John had written Mr. Crawley, asking him to ask Lady Mary to pick out a gift for Anna and to collect the money from Lord Grantham. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best he could do. He supposed he would learned how they had done on her next visit.

"No."

The most implausible thing he could think of for Molesley…

"He has a lady friend."

"Yes. Mr. Molesley has a lady friend. And you'll never guess who it is!"

Robert's Dressing Room

A few days later

"What I can't understand, Thomas, is how Mr. Pamuk even found Lady Mary's bedroom at all." Thomas groaned to himself. Not this again. "And why she didn't scream." She didn't scream because she wanted him. He was an uncommonly handsome man and he knew it. "But the corridors are so confusing. He must have had help." Thomas felt his heart stop as Lord Grantham slowly turned to him.

"His man wasn't with him. He asked for a footman."

"My Lord…you see…"

"You took him to my daughter's room." Lord Grantham's voice had dropped to a whisper.

"My Lord…you see…Mr. Pamuk…he asked me…and I thought…"

"You thought my daughter was a wanton tart to throw away her reputation, her good name, for a handsome foreigner? I am such a fool. All the chances I've given you." He shook his head. "I should have dismissed you for the stealing, for trying to frame John Bates, the best man I know, for any number of other insolences, but no, I kept giving you a chance, and all along, you were behind the mystery of Mr. Pamuk and Mary. I bet you even had something to with Isis's disappearance." That dog never did take to him. "That's it. You're dismissed. Collect what's owed you from Carson and be out of my house within the hour."

No. It wasn't happening. All he'd worked for, gone. "But…my Lord…"

"Get out."

Anna's room

Much later in the evening

Anna closed her door and removed her nightgown and dressing gown, which she had worn to the washroom to brush her teeth, and slipped into John's dressing gown. She didn't do this every night; she knew it would stop to smell like him eventually if she did that, and she never wanted to forget how he smelled. It as close to the feeling of being wrapped in John she would ever have again, and on these nights, she indulged herself. The fabric was beginning to be a mixture of their scents. John would like that, if she told him. She was afraid to tell him.

She laid down. She had ceased saying her prayers soon after John's sentence was commuted. She wasn't sure why. John had his life, but she felt God had abandoned them. Maybe John was right; maybe it was all just a story.

She wondered if she would sleep. Some nights she was afraid to sleep. The nightmare had started after the sentence was commuted. It was always the same. John, in his best suit, asleep, with that little smile like a shared secret and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. As she reached to kiss him, her hand on his collar, she was confused. He felt wrong. He was cold. Stiff. There was a mark on his neck. A horrible red mark covered by his collar and tie. He was being lowered into a wooden box into the ground. The cold wet ground. She screamed.

It happened the same way each time. She sat bolt upright in her bed screaming, her sheets soaked with sweat, sometimes naked from where John's dressing gown had fallen from her shoulders. The first time all the lights went on and her door burst open, all the female staff in the door, staring, like they had at Mr. Lang that night. Anna hadn't even been aware they were there until Mrs. Patmore bustled in and cradled her to her bosom, rocking her, ordering Daisy to fetch tea and the others to clear off. Anna had gasped and sobbed and watched as Mrs. Hughes and Miss O'Brien turned pale to see her and slowly left, Mrs. Patmore urging them out. The other times it happened Mrs. Patmore got to her first. Anna wondered if the others were afraid of her. They certainly kept their distance the mornings after.

Anna looked into the darkness. She was afraid to sleep, but she needed to get away. John had once waxed poetic on the oblivion drink could bring. Maybe that was what she needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Village Hospital

Three weeks later

"Thomas, I'm sorry, but I can't afford to pay you."

"But, Dr. Clarkson, I can help you, and I don't have anywhere else to go. Isn't there something I could do?"

Richard just wished Thomas would go. He had shown up, suitcase in hand, three weeks ago, having been dismissed by Lord Grantham. Richard had allowed Thomas to stay at the hospital while he looked for work. He hadn't found anything, and kept suggesting he'd make a good addition to the hospital staff. Thomas couldn't possibly understand. It would be so much better if he were to go.

"See, I can help out where Mrs. Crawley can't. She's a good nurse, but she's getting older. She shouldn't be lifting and carrying heavy men around. And there are some things a lady just shouldn't be doing. I know I can help."

Richard put a file on his desk. He could use the extra hands. "I can't pay you."

"I have no where else to go. I'll work for my room and board."

Richard turned and looked at Thomas. He would miss him if he were to leave. He would miss him more than he should. That voice, that thick hair, those eyes. "Well, we'll give it a try. I'm sure I can find plenty for you to do." He cleared his throat nervously. The way Thomas's throat moved and his lips curled when he exhaled smoke.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson." Thomas took a step towards to him. "I'm sure there's plenty I can do for you."

Thomas was smoothing the side of his face. Those dark eyes were locked on his. Richard cleared his throat nervously. He tried to step back. This wasn't happening. Thomas had his hand. Thomas's hands were behind his head. His mouth was on his. His body against his. It felt heavenly. Richard groaned and moved them frantically to the exam table as Thomas reached for his trousers. Mrs. Crawley was just in the outer room.

They hit the table, shrugging out of their jackets. The door opened. "Dr. Clarkson I was thinking…."

Matthew's Study

Crawley House

That same day

"Mary, I didn't suggest it at the time because I didn't think there was any change of Bates being convicted, but Murray wasn't the man for the job."

Mary looked up from her book. She was trying to learn Italian before their honeymoon in Florence. "Oh? What do you mean? Papa uses him for everything."

"Well, Murray's a fine man and he has a great head for the sorts of things Robert usually needs him to do, but criminal defense requires a little something else."

Mary agreed. She didn't know anything about trials, but the defense didn't seem up to the fight. "What do you want to suggest?" It was so nice to see Matthew excited.

"I have a friend from law school, Robert Ford, who specializes in criminal defense. He's never lost, but he fights dirty."

"How much dirtier can it get? And I thought he couldn't be retired?"

Matthew rocked back in his chair. "He can't, unless a mistrial is declared." He leaned forward. "Mary, I'm in over my head. Murray's defense was that a peer thinks John Bates is an exemplary man. That isn't a defense strategy. We need to get someone who knows how to play the game. If I'd been on the jury, I would have convicted him."

Mary would have too, but she didn't want to say it. "I think we owe it to Anna and Bates to get the best. Papa will agree, and he's not in a good position just now to disagree." She had told Matthew about what she'd overheard. "Bates was protecting me, and look where it got him. We have to fix it."

Matthew smiled. "We will."

Same Time

Butler's Pantry

Crawley House

Anna looked at Mr. Molseley's copy book. He hadn't made any progress since last week. She, however, had really taken to Italian. Anna hadn't had much experience with foreign languages, but she had a good ear, and had picked up a little French from visiting maids. Italian was just so beautiful, the way it flowed and lilted and rhymed. Anna loved it. She almost forgot to be sad.

"No, Mr. Molseley, you have to make the endings fit the subject. It isn't like English."

"It should be. All the civilized world speaks English."

Anna rolled her eyes. John would love this. "Oh come on, aren't you looking forward to the trip? I am. And if we can't communicate with the locals we won't be any help to Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley." She was so so tired.

"I didn't think I'd have to learn a new way to talk. English is good enough for me." He looked like a sulky child. "And I have my Baedeker, and I tried to read _A Room with a_ _View_. Silly book. I don't know why anyone would want to go to Italy."

Anna couldn't believe she was doing this. She didn't really want to be stuck with him for a month. She'd be happy if he just stayed in the hotel all day, but somehow she couldn't let him. "Is the problem your father? Do you not want to leave him for so long?" She was too nice for her own good.

Mr. Molesley looked at the floor. Did she see a blush? "Well…."

"Or is it Ethel?"

His head snapped up. "How did you know?"

Anna smiled. "Everyone knows. I'm happy for you both. You needed someone, and Ethel and Charlie certainly do. I think you'll be good for each other." She couldn't believe she was doing this. She would have a better time alone. "Why don't you ask Ethel to stay with your father? I'm sure he'd enjoy the company, and Charlie's a good boy. It would give Ethel something to do, too, while we're away. You'll still miss them, but you won't have to worry. All the people you care about will be in the same place." And John would be wasting away in a small room with no visitors.

Mr. Molesley blinked a few times. "Well, actually, that could work." He smiled. "That could work very well. Now, let's get to work, shall we?" He picked up the book. "Now how did you say this one? Bun Gor Nio? Ki-ah-oo?"

Anna smiled. It was going to be a long trip.

Same day

Downton Abbey

Mrs. Hughes's sitting room

"She's here, Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you, Lily, I'll just be a minute." She managed a smile as Lily shut the door. The medium was here. Sometimes Elsie did think she'd taken leave of her senses. There was just time for a sip. She opened the drawer where she kept her bottle, and remembered she'd taken her glass back to the kitchen. As she put the bottle to her lips, there was a knock at the door. Startled, she spat whiskey all over her desk as Mr. Carson entered.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes." Elsie knew her face was scarlet. She was so embarrassed.

"Is it really that bad?" At least he looked sympathetic.

She was so ashamed. "Well, I...sometimes. I just…"

"Has this been going on since Mr. Bates's trial?"

"Yes. At first it was just at night, when I couldn't sleep, but then…."

Mr. Carson sighed. "I think we should talk about this later. Mrs. Jennings is here."

"What's she like?"

"Not as eccentric as I expected. We'll see."

"I can't believe we're doing this."

Mr. Carson waited a minute before answering. "Nor can I, but as you said, we have to do whatever it takes to get Mr. Bates released. Now, shall I show in Mrs. Jennings? We don't want her lingering in the hall."

Same time

Library

"Good news, Robert, my mother can come early." Cora smiled sweetly.

Robert dropped his book. Since when was that good news? He smiled. "How wonderful. We haven't seen her since Sybil was tiny."

"And she's planning to stay to help out after Sybil has her baby. Isn't that nice?" Cora had barely looked up from the letter. Robert knew she was punishing him. Ever since that night a few weeks ago she'd been alarmingly sweet.

Cora looked up and smiled again. "And Sybil wants to have the baby here. I told it was fine. She and Tom will be staying on after the wedding. Won't it be nice to have the whole family here again?"

Robert tried to calm himself. Tom Branson a guest in his home. Tom Branson in bed with his daughter. A house full of people interfering with their trip to the Riviera. It was too much. He clenched his jaw and his fist. And he still hadn't found a new valet. Damn Vera Bates.

Cora patted his arm. It was the first time she'd touched him in weeks. "You need to get past this, dear. She married him, she didn't throw herself away on him in the back of the car. And I like Tom. He's a self-made man, and he certainly he wasn't after her money since you didn't give her any to speak of. But then, I'm an American."

Robert felt his arm beginning to shake. "You're never going to forgive me, are you?"

"I may forgive, but I'll never forget." She turned to leave. Robert knew that. She had never forgotten anything and now she'd had years of training from his mother.

"It will be wonderful dear. I can't wait."

Later

York Prison

John looked around his cell. It was small and damp and cold and had what passed for a window several feet above his head. It had his cot, another cot, and a toilet. It would be his home until the day of his death.

John hadn't exactly given up on being released. It could happen. He just didn't count on it. He knew Anna needed to think he'd be released, and that Anna needed to think that he thought he would be released, and that, to an extent, he needed to think he would be released. But he also knew, if he wasn't, he needed to accept it. Get used to his surroundings. His new life. Sooner rather than later.

Sometimes he thought it would be better if he had been hanged. Nauseating as he found the idea, he realized there would be no life for Anna as the wife as of a convicted murderer. As his widow, she might have some hope of happiness. On particularly dark, cold days, he thought it would be better. He could speed up the progress of his life sentence. If Murray did as good a job with his appeal as he had done with his defense, he would never smell fresh air or touch Anna again. John was suspicious of hope. Anna had once expounded the virtues of hope tempered with a plan. John wasn't sure about the plan.

Anna smiled for him when she came, but he knew. She talked of work and life and what she was doing, what she was thinking, but he knew. There was a hunger to her eyes he hated to see. He had nothing to tell her. He didn't want to tell her how bad it was. The screams, the fights, the language, the smell. The fear. He knew the promise he had asked her to make, that she would live and make friends and be happy, was impossible for her to keep. She wasn't likely to devote any of her spare time to anything other than him, and no one would want to be friends with the wife of a murderer.

Prison smelled like sweat and shit and dirty feet. John smelled like sweat and shit and dirty feet. He had nothing to do. That was fine for some men, but he needed something to do. He knew sometimes that his mind was turning on itself, and other times he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop. He didn't talk to the other prisoners. Talking to them meant he accepted his position as a murderer. It wasn't as if anyone would ever let him forget. The guards reminded him, every time they took his arms to escort him to meals or the yard, that he was a murderer and should have been hanged. One guard in particular liked pull him faster than he could move and mock his limp. Maybe he was a murderer and this was a punishment worse than hanging by the neck until he was dead. It was much worse. If he only had a belt, or better, a razor. He could set Anna free.

The idea of being led to a gallows, helped up the steps because he couldn't walk, having a rope placed around his neck and the floor ripped from under him haunted John in what little sleep he managed. John used to think suicide was the coward's way, but in the dark of the night, when it would benefit someone as dear as Anna, it seemed noble. He would endure the suffering for his own sake, but watching Anna watching him suffer was destroying them.

Maybe he was a murderer. Maybe he did poison Vera. He had certainly thought about it. He heard footsteps and metal. The guard was unlocking his cell. He was respectful to the guards but they didn't take it as such. He could be just as nasty as they were, but that wasn't the man John wanted to be. There was a tall, hunched, red-haired inmate John hadn't seen before with the guard.

"Bates, this is Wallace. Your new cell mate. We don't usually put anyone in with murderers, but you're such a gentleman we thought we'd make an exception."

Wallace was shoved through the door of cell. John stood to greet him, and felt his leg give way. He fell to the ground.

That evening

Servants Hall

Downton Abbey

"Well, I never would have thought Thomas would be involved with Sir Richard in anything!" Mrs. Hughes helped herself to a third glass of claret.

"She was an extraordinary woman. Not what I expected at all, mind." Mrs. Patmore was on her fourth glass.

"What, you were disappointed she didn't have a turban and a crystal ball?" Miss O'Brien didn't care for wine.

"I always thought séances had to happen at night." Mr. Carson rocked back in his chair. He had had enough wine.

"It was like Vera Bates was right here again. I got a right chill when I heard that voice." Mrs. Patmore had jumped when Vera's voice came out of the medium's mouth.

"Don't you wonder what Mr. Bates ever saw in her?" Mrs. Hughes had wanted to ask him that that horrible day she appeared. She wanted to pull him back into her parlor, sit him down, and tell him the woman was crazy and he was making a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life. She wished she had.

Miss O'Brien cleared her throat. She was a different person since the trial. "I knew Thomas was talking with Sir Richard. You know him, always after a valet's job, but I didn't know they had any sort of agreement about anything. But I never thought he'd let his greed lead to murder." She had liked Thomas once. Just showed you couldn't trust anyone.

"I think the question here is do we tell Anna?" Mr. Carson hadn't noticed that Anna had appeared in the door.

"Tell Anna what?"


	3. Chapter 3

The next day

The Butler's Pantry

"My lady, thank you for coming. I know this is unusual, but I thought what we had to say was best kept down here."

Mary sat in the chair across from Mr. Carson's desk. She hadn't been downstairs in years. It was the same as she remembered, and that made her inexplicably sad. She looked from Mr. Carson to Mrs. Hughes, and took the tea handed to her by the housekeeper.

"I admit I'm intrigued, and concerned." She took another look at Mrs. Hughes. She looked nervous, and tired. "Is it something to do with Anna?"

Mr. Carson folded his hands and leaned across the desk. Mary had missed spending time with him. She couldn't remember why she'd stopped. "It is about Mr. Bates, and we haven't told Anna. You see, my lady, well….perhaps you'd like to take it from here from Mrs. Hughes?"

Mary had never seen Mr. Carson flustered. She turned to Mrs. Hughes, who was obviously trying to keep her hands from shaking.

"My lady, we've had this old Ouija board in the servant's hall forever. It turns up every now and then and the younger staff have a go with it and then it gets put away." She started to bunch her skirt. "Usually it is just nonsense, but a few weeks ago it said it was Vera Bates."

Mary blinked. "Vera Bates? Spoke through a board?"

Mrs. Hughes hesitated. "I know, my lady, and ordinarily I wouldn't set any store by it either…it's just…Anna. I thought I owed it to Anna, after what I did to her." She blinked and looked at her hands. "If I had just lied in court…."

Mary understood. They had all done this to Anna. If she had just screamed when Kemal appeared in her bedroom the whole sorry mess would have been avoided. She nodded. "What did Vera say?"

"She identified her murderers and cleared Mr. Bates' name."

Mary shook her head. Mrs. Hughes was correct; this was insane but it was also all they had. "This becomes more and more surprising. I wouldn't have thought that woman would do anything to help Mr. Bates."

Mr. Carson took over. Mary smiled at Mrs. Hughes, who looked relieved. "Indeed, my lady. That's why we asked a medium to come in yesterday to see what she could make of it."

"A medium? And what did she determine?"

"She also made contact with the late Mrs. Bates, and confirmed her story. She also said ghosts are incapable of lying, even if they want to."

Mary nodded. It was insane, but there was nothing else. "You said murderers. Who are they?"

Mr. Carson looked at Mrs. Hughes, who sighed and looked away. He turned back to Mary. "Sir Richard Carlisle and Thomas, my lady."

Later

The Library

"Bad news, Robert, Sybil's doctor has said she can't travel over for the wedding."

Robert turned from the window. "Whyever not? She needs to be here, or there will be more talk. Even with the chauffeur in tow."

"Tom, dear, his name is Tom." Cora smiled and turned back to the letter. "She's been working the entire time in the maternity ward to learn, and the doctor in charge said no more. She's to stay off her feet and close to home." She folded the letter. "Well, that's that. Mother and I will go over to Dublin once the wedding's over."

Robert felt his heart skip. Dublin? A countess? Now? "Cora, have you lost your mind? You'll do no such thing!"

She smiled that maddening smile. "Won't I? Robert, our daughter is living in reduced circumstances and is expecting a child. I'm sure Mrs. Branson and Sybil's friends from the hospital are doing their best, but at times like this, a girl needs her own mother." Robert gritted his teeth. Cora had never needed her mother until now. "At the rate the girls are going, this will be our only grandchild, and I will not be denied the opportunity to know him or her because of your stubborn pride and misplaced sense of honor." Robert felt his vision going fuzzy. "Now, mother and I will go to Dublin once Mary and Matthew leave for Italy. I'm not afraid of the Irish, but if there is cause for concern, we'll travel as two American women of great fortune and no consequence, which is exactly what we are to you." That smile and that sweet tone of voice masked so much. "My people did not get this far by being afraid of some angry peasants. Don't underestimate us." It was just a kiss. "You will not prevent this." And a heated embrace in his dressing room. "And really, I'd have thought you'd be pleased not to have to host Tom." She smiled and left the room.

Robert leaned his forehead against the windowpane. That wasn't the point. He wasn't sure he knew what the point was, but that wasn't it. Isis thumped her tail. It was time for her walk.

That Afternoon

Downton Churchyard

"So what'd she say?" Thomas was nervous. He could barely concentrate on his blowing.

"She told us how she died and who helped her along."

She said it right as Thomas was starting to exhale and he choked. O'Brien just waited until he recovered.

"I don't know what they plan to do, but I know they'll do something." O'Brien looked up at the tower from the gravestone she was sitting on. "I don't know why I'm even telling you, but I am. If I'm asked to testify again, I'll tell the truth again." She knew why she was telling him. She had always liked Thomas, and she didn't like most people. Most people didn't like her. He was just a kid when he came to Downton, from a miserable home like hers, beaten just because his father was looking for something to do. Made them tough, but nasty.

"Thomas, I've been just as guilty as you about many things, guiltier about some, but I've never stooped to murder." Was an unborn child murder? Did it make any difference?

He flushed. "When did you start caring about people?"

She looked at the sky. It was the defiant bright blue of spring. Mr. Bates would never see the sky again because of her. Lady Grantham's baby never breathed because of her. "I don't rightly know. But for some reason, worthless as you are, I don't want to see you hang."

He coughed again. The only other time she had seen him so flustered was when he realized he'd been scammed. "I won't help you again. I won't speak for you any more. I'm done. You need to get out of the country, because daft as it sounds, Mrs. Hughes intends to pursue this, and once Anna and his lordship are involved there'll be no stopping it."

Thomas looked over his shoulder nervously. "Yeah, but you see…I…well…"

She looked him in the eye. "You get your fancy man Dr. Clarkson to leave with you. It doesn't matter what you tell him. Just look at him and he'll go wherever you want." She blew a perfect ring before stubbing out her cigarette. "Goodbye Thomas. Don't write. Don't stop by. And good luck."

York Prison

That evening

Anna wasn't allowed to come. She had been notified, but as John's life was not in danger, she was not permitted to visit. It was only a broken hip. He had refused morphine. They hadn't kept him in the infirmary. The doctor had made it clear he was just taking up space, and reminded him by all rights he should have been hanged. Once the fracture had been set, he was taken back to his cell. Not that it mattered. Prison was simply a warehouse for men until they were finally claimed by death.

John couldn't walk. Prisoners were not permitted canes or crutches, especially ones with records of violence. They did not have wheel chairs. John was now totally dependent on two guards to escort him from place to place. It was humiliating. He was on his bunk, flat on his back, staring at the stone ceiling. The pain was searing. He wouldn't react to it. Reacting would give them reason to mock him. He was so cold. Not reacting would make them hate him even more. He was so sweaty. He should have taken the morphine.

John had been given morphine in Africa. It was more wonderful and more awful than whiskey, and he would not do that again. He would not become a slave it. Taking it would mean warmth and peace and sleep. He needed to feel pain. It reminded he was alive. He was shaking. He swallowed the pain. Apparently he had decided to live. Today, at least. He could ask for some, the doctor had said he was permitted to change his mind. He wouldn't change his mind. He couldn't change his mind. The pain might kill him, but he would not give in. Even in this stinking hell-hole, he deserved better. He would rather feel. Someone was screaming. He clenched his jaw. Someone was starring at him.

Willie. His new roommate. Cellmate. William Wallace. He was starring. John turned his head so he could grimace at the wall. Maybe he could rest his sweaty forehead on the cold stone wall. Who was screaming? He needed to release the pain. He gripped his mattress. He would never walk again. He would not sink into pity. Anna would not care. He cared. Anna would be saddled with an old man. He was never getting out of prison. Vera had won. He should have listened to Anna and run away. She was always right. They had done everything right. Willie. What was he in for? What was that awful smell? He needed to release the pain. He tried to shift his leg. He gasped.

The man was looking at him. He wouldn't scream. He gripped his left arm with his right hand, digging in the nails until there was blood. The pain flowed out of his body. It felt so good he shuddered and gasped. He didn't have to scream. He caught his breath.

John shifted. The pain was like a fire. Someone was screaming.

Same time

Mrs. Hughes's Sitting Room

"What'd Lady Mary say?" Mrs. Patmore took a sip of whiskey. "This is very smooth." She smiled appreciatively.

"It is, isn't it?" Mrs. Hughes took a large sip. "She's going to talk to Mr. Crawley. Apparently he has contacted a more experienced attorney."

"From what you said, Daisy would've been a better bet than that Murray." Mrs. Patmore took a large drink.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "It can't possibly get any worse." She topped off her glass and passed the bottle to Mrs. Patmore.

"No, I don't suppose it can." Mrs. Patmore poured a very large second glass. "I was in the village earlier, and I could swear I saw Mr. Molesley with Ethel's Charlie. Do you know anything about that?"

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes. "You didn't know? Oh, that's been going on for weeks."

"I don't get out much these days." Mrs. Patmore took a large drink. "So, have you told Anna yet?"

Mrs. Hughes looked at her hands. "No…I…"

"No, Mrs. Patmore, she hasn't told me yet, and I wish she would."

Much later

Anna's room

Anna shut the door to her room and leaned against it. She wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry. Vera had spoken to them through that old Ouija board. Mrs. Hughes must have lost her mind. Surely it was the guilt. Anna knew she blamed herself, everyone blamed themselves but her. If John had just listened to her they could be far away now and together. Living in sin, perhaps, but was love ever a sin? But he had insisted they do things right.

Mrs. Hughes must believe the case was hopeless if she had hired medium. It was insane. Perhaps it would be easier if they all accepted that John was a murderer. The warden had reminded her of that last night when he telephoned. She had asked if she could see John. There had been a long pause and she was reminded, politely but curtly, that he was in prison, not away at school, and unless his life was in immediate danger, there would be no reason for an extra visit. He indicated his calling her was an unusual courtesy, and that John, though there may indeed be some doubt about his case, was a convicted murdered and should have been hanged. He wasn't special. Anna had given the news to Mr. Carson and gone to her room without asking what they were debating telling her. She hadn't been able to cry. John would never walk again. She knew it without seeing him. Maybe tonight she could cry. It might let the pain out. She didn't want anyone to see her. They pitied her so and she couldn't stand it.

She sat on the edge of her bed. Long ago she had had a conversation with John about pity. He was guilty of mistaking concern and caring for pity. Perhaps she was making the same mistake. She began to undress. John hated the black dress. She was stuck with black though. At least she would have a few nicer dresses when she went to work for Lady Mary. Still black though, but no apron or cap. Thomas had killed Vera. They were going to see if Vera's ghost could testify in court to clear John. She felt numb.

Anna moved to her dressing table to braid her hair. The face looking back from the mirror was narrow, shadowed, lined, pale. She had always been pale, but this was a different pallor. The dark puffy red patches under her eyes were painful. There was a crease starting in her forehead. She rubbed it as if to make it disappear. It hadn't been there until Vera. The bitch couldn't even stay dead. Anna didn't care if she could save John; if Vera had any part of it she couldn't trust it. She kept rubbing the crease. It was starting to burn. John had let Vera win. He had promised her he wouldn't. He had promised to fight her. There would never be an escape from that bitch. She had done this to them. She had made Anna look old and John wouldn't love her if she looked old.

The tears came. She was old. Vera was still tormenting them. They came in long shuddering gasps. John would never walk again. They were blinding and hot. John should have listened to her and run away. She should have insisted. She had had faith, foolish faith, that it would work out and Vera would cooperate. The tears were stinging and blinding and felt wonderful. She sank her forehead to the dresser, clutching one arm around her stomach as she sobbed and gasped. The other dropped her hairbrush and knocked a book to the floor. Her Bible. Another toppled on top of it. One of John's. _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_. Maybe God was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A week later

Dr. Clarkson's bedroom

The middle of the afternoon

Richard had never felt more fulfilled in his life. He hadn't realized something was missing, but now he knew. He knew so much. He had been with many women, but it was never like this, never so satisfying. With women, he always felt an emptiness afterwards, a loss of essence. He stretched. Muscles he hadn't used in some time were aching, but it was a good ache.

Thomas was awake now, propped up against the pillows, smoking a cigarette. The room stank of sweat and semen and the sheets were a mess. Richard couldn't believe they had given in during the daylight. It was just so hard to stop when the moment arose. Thomas's body was perfect. Richard had seen plenty of naked men. Thomas was flawless. Taught, tall, strong. Richard reached over and ran a hand through his chest hair. Thomas blew a perfect ring of smoke. He just couldn't believe a man like Thomas could possibly be interested in someone as old and grey as him.

Thomas smiled. The way his lip curled and eye glinted, like a wink made Richard's heart jump. He ran his hand down Thomas's firm body. He twitched in his hand. Richard had never had cause to regret his age, but the ever-readiness of a young man was something to regret. So long as Thomas didn't mind that he didn't always recover as quickly. Richard did love the way the muscles in his neck moved, ever so slightly, as he smoked. But would it last? A man like Thomas, with the world, with life ahead of him, wouldn't want to be stuck with an old man like him in a remote English village for long.

Thomas smiled and rolled onto his side. "Richard," he ran his hand through Richard's hair, "maybe we should consider the future."

Matthew's Office

Same time

"I'm not sure I quite understand. Are you saying they hired a medium? And she contacted Vera Bates?" Matthew blinked repeatedly.

"Yes." Mary sighed patiently. "In fact, they hired the medium Sir Arthur Conan Doyle uses." She still thought the whole thing was insane, but upon reflection, she agreed with Mrs. Hughes. It was all they had, and they owed Anna.

"So…what do they want us to do?" Mary loved him, but he really could be slow sometimes.

"Well, apparently Vera told them who killed her, and they were wondering if there was a way to use it to get Mr. Bates's conviction overturned."

Matthew blinked again, and leaned back in his chair. "I have no idea, but criminal law isn't really my specialty."

Mary smiled. "I'm so glad to hear you say that, unlike Mr. Murray, who obviously knows nothing about it."

"Indeed. I need to speak to your father about that. My friend Robert Ford will be here by the end of the week."

"Don't tell Papa about the medium. Not yet at least." Mary saw what looked like Mr. Molesley slinking around the side of the garden with a large blanket and a bottle of wine.

"No." Matthew ruffled his hand through his hair. "Did they tell you who the killer was?"

Mary laughed and hoped she didn't sound too nervous. She didn't want to believe it. She had hoped she had been as impassive as ever when Mr. Carson told her. She had not mentioned it to Anna. She believed it. It was frighteningly like what she knew. "It was Thomas and Sir Richard."

Matthew fell out of his chair.

Downton Abbey

Library

About the same time

Robert reached down to rub Isis's ears. She was a good girl. She loved him. There had been no responses to his advertisement for a new valet. A man in his position should not have to carry his own suitcase in town or fasten his own cufflinks at home. Cora had let him return to her bed, but that was it. It was very cold.

The door opened. "Robert, I was thinking." Cora picked up a book. Something by Frances Hogdson Burnet from the look of the cover.

"What's that, dear?" He smiled. If she would only forgive him.

"Well, I'm no expert on inheritance law. It has never made a bit of sense to me why girls can't inherit here, and the whole thing with the eldest male direct descendent of the body…." She smiled and blinked in that way she had. She understood perfectly. She was one of the smartest people Robert knew. "I do know how you like to do things properly."

He shifted in his chair. Isis thumped her tail.

"Wouldn't it be true if Sybil's baby is a boy that he would then be the next earl? Isn't the phrase in the entail something like direct males heir of the body?" She flipped through the book. "If you're going to insist on following the language of the entail to the letter, surely that would be the case."

Robert's heart skipped a beat. He could feel his breath starting to be heavier than he liked. Branson's child as the future Earl of Grantham? He turned to look at Cora, who was now engrossed in her book. She was right. That was a strict interpretation of the language of the entail. He closed his eyes. He could feel the blood rushing to his face as the color drained out. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before. There was nothing he could do. Damn his father.

Cora looked up. "Are you sure you're quite alright dear? You're looking rather dyspeptic. Perhaps you should seen Dr. Clarkson." She stood, smiled, and left the room.

Kitchen

Later in the afternoon

"But what's it for, Mrs. Patmore?" Daisy was confused.

"It's a medical device." Mrs. Patmore snapped the case shut before Miss O'Brien had the chance to say something. She should have known better than to open it in the kitchen, but she wasn't thinking. She had thought it was the new set of knives she'd ordered.

Daisy blinked a few times, her brow furrowed. "A medical device? What for? I didn't know you were sick."

"There's plenty you don't know, my girl!" She would die if one of the men came in. Mr. Carson was expected back at any minute.

"Flamin' hell! I swear that women believes she'll strain her precious little wrist if she so much as buttons a blouse herself!" Miss O'Brien might be worse than Mr. Carson. "I could use some tea." Mrs. Patmore tried to hide the case under the butcher's block before Miss O'Brien could see it. "What are you hiding there?"

"Mrs. Patmore got a new medical device." Confound the girl.

"Oh? What's that?" Miss O'Brien smirked as Mrs. Patmore laid the case on the table. "The White Cross Electric Vibrator by Lindstrom-Smith." She looked up her knowingly. "Is this the newer model, or the 1910?"

"The 1910." She flushed. Daisy looked more confused than ever. "Mrs. Crawley said this was just thing for my hysteria."

"Hysteria? What's this thing have to do with hysteria?" Daisy looked from Mrs. Patmore to Miss O'Brien.

"It induces hysterical paroxysm. Don't you have something to peel?"

Miss O'Brien's lips twitched. "And makes her forget to regret there never was a Mr. Patmore."

"What?" Daisy blinked.

Mrs. Patmore chuckled. "Mrs. Crawley did say she didn't miss Dr. Crawley half as much after she got hers." Miss O'Brien laughed. They forgot Daisy for a minute.

"But Mrs. Patmore, I don't understand. How can that machine take the place of a husband?" She looked from one to the other. "Should we get one for Anna so she wouldn't miss Mr. Bates as much?"

Mrs. Patmore looked away as Miss O'Brien bit her lip. "I don't think she'd appreciate that. There are…different ways to miss a husband."

"Oh…."

Miss O'Brien's shoulders were shaking. "She's a married woman now, she'll have to know sometime."

Mrs. Patmore took a deep breath. "Well, you see, Daisy, when two people love each other very much….."

The Village

Same afternoon, slightly later

Anna sighed as she walked away from the hospital. Dr. Clarkson had told her exactly what she thought he would. John might never walk again. She wanted to know what to expect before she saw him, before he tried to protect her from the truth. Anna hadn't been sure of Dr. Clarkson's expertise since his misdiagnosis of Mr. Crawley's injury, but he had to be better than the doctor at the prison. At least he didn't leer at her or insult her.

Dr. Clarkson had seemed oddly relaxed today; distracted as well. Anna wondered what it was. His hair wasn't as neat as usual, and he seemed to be rushing in from his living quarters. She thought she recognized Thomas's coat and hat in the hall. That wasn't important. Dr. Clarkson had said with proper care, and exercise, John would be able to regain some use of his leg. Without, and with what he knew of John's previous injury, it was highly unlikely. He needed warmth, and care, and exercise. The damp and neglect would settle into the bone and prevent healing. In addition to walking, other activities would be challenging. He had cleared his throat and looked at his hands as he said that. Anna knew exactly what he meant. Luckily they were both very creative in that area.

Depressing as the news had been, Anna was glad to know. She wanted to be prepared for when she saw John. Not knowing what to expect bothered her. Knowing didn't, no matter how awful the news might be.

She had some shopping to do before returning home, and time for tea in the village. Anna took a deep breath before opening the door. The last time she had been in the clerk had been barely cordial. She knew it was because of John. He was a murderer. It didn't matter that he had lived near them for year, in the eyes of the village, he was a murderer. Anna smiled as she went inside. It didn't matter what they thought. They didn't know him.

Anna saw the shopgirls whispering as she entered. She smiled at them. They were very young. If John could wrap his leg in flannel, and walk on level ground, it would help him regain strength. One of the girls disappeared into the back of the shop. This had happened before. Anna had entered a shop, and the staff vanished, as if she had something contagious. It didn't matter. They didn't know her. She found the powder she was seeking for Lady Mary, whose supply from London was out but due within the week. Anna also found a jar of the lavender hand cream John liked. She added that to her selection, and made her way to the counter.

The girl was staring at her. This had happened before, often in church. Anna could handle starring. She was almost used to it. She knew she should get used to it, but she didn't want to. That would mean she accepted it, that she accepted John wasn't coming back. Finally the girl started to wrap Anna's purchases.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Anna wanted her to be at ease.

"Yes." She wouldn't make eye contact. "Warm, too."

"Indeed. Could you wrap those separately please?"

Silence. "You're the murderer's wife." It was a statement, not a question.

"My husband was wrongfully convicted, and we're working on gathering evidence for an appeal." Evidence that would apparently only come from his alleged victim's ghost, which was to say, no evidence at all. The girl dropped a jar. Anna had rehearsed the answer a number of times, but it never got any easier to say. It would be easier to say "Yes, I'm the murderer's wife," but that would be a lie. John had been a good customer in this shop, for himself and on behalf of Lord Grantham. That seemed to be forgotten now that John was a murderer. Other than over their exchange of money Anna and the shopgirl exchanged no further words.

Back in the street, Anna decided to have tea at the little shop. She and John had been there a number of times, but she hadn't been since his arrest. They had always had such a nice time there, it would be good to go back and have new memories with the old ones. She couldn't take him flannel for his leg. She had been reminded before it wasn't a boys school. It was hopeless. John said his window leaked, and their only exercise was walking in a circle in the yard.

Anna noticed the looks and whispers as she entered the shop. She selected a table near the fireplace. The old ladies at the next table got up as soon as she sat down. Anna didn't like the way they looked at her, but they didn't know her, they didn't know John. She wasn't sure she wanted them to if they believed everything they heard. She studied the menu. Waitresses walked around her. The shop was not busy. John might never walk again. She must not dwell on that. He was alive. He was healthy. She saw him as often as she could. A tear ran down her cheek. It could be so much worse. Nothing would come of this new business with Vera's ghost. She wouldn't tell him.

Twenty minutes has passed. Anna debated summonsing a waitress, but thought better of it. She didn't want to cause a scene. She couldn't quite believe that Mrs. Hughes had actually called a medium. It was all too much. Why should they trust Vera's ghost any more than they had trusted Vera? She made her way to the door. The owner, Mrs. Cockburn, was chatting with another woman as Anna made her way outside.

"Miss Smith, I'm sorry, was something wrong?" Mrs. Cockburn had always been kind, but Anna saw her companion draw back as she passed. Anna wondered if they thought being married to a convicted murderer was contagious.

"Actually yes, and it's Mrs. Bates." She smiled, as if they didn't know. "I've been waiting for twenty minutes at least, and I do have other things to do this afternoon." Anna tried to keep her tone cordial, even. She gripped her bag tightly with both hands so they wouldn't see how she was shaking.

Mrs. Cockburn had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Bates. If you'll come back in, I'll be happy to see to you myself."

Anna couldn't go back inside, touched as she was. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Cockburn, but I am expected back at the house, and I know I'm disturbing your other customers." She smiled, she hoped bravely. "I wouldn't want to harm your business any more than I have." She was the wife of a murderer. She almost said it out loud.

She left quickly so they couldn't see her tears falling. They were so kind, but so cruel. Why did they all trust Vera? She didn't, and she wouldn't tell John. There was nothing so cruel as false hope. She would keep plugging away at the small leads she had. She was almost running. She should be careful. John needed her to be able to walk if he couldn't. She took a deep breath. When would the world be finished with them? It didn't matter that John couldn't walk. She did love his body, but not walking wasn't the end of the world. If only John could take the blow to his pride.

If he was ever released. Anna stopped to catch her breath. She used to think when. Now it was if. If he was ever released they would have to leave Downton, leave Yorkshire, leave England most likely.

That evening

Hall outside Downton Library

"Fire Murray! What can you mean Matthew? He's been with the family for years!"

"Yes, Robert, I understand that, and I respect it, but he isn't the man for this job."

Mary shifted to get her ear closer to the keyhole.

"Criminal defense is something completely different than estate and property law, and requires a specialist. I would never attempt it."

"Why didn't you say this before Bates's trial? Isn't it a little late to change lawyers?"

"I didn't say anything at the time because I didn't know how bad the case was against him. I was too wrapped up in Lavinia's death to think clearly."

Mary missed a few words from her father. Her grandmother was right; listening at keyholes was inaccurate but most illuminating.

"But then when I saw the trial…Robert, I would have convicted him and I know he didn't do it. Surely you must see that Murray isn't the man for the job. He'll see this as a relief, trust me. Lawyers are a proud lot, and he won't want to admit he's in over his head."

Mary heard more whisky being poured.

"You have said many times now that you owe your life to John Bates. If that's true, don't you owe him a lawyer who can give him a chance of having a life?"

Mary heard her father sigh.

"You're right. You'll handle the whole thing?"

"Of course, first thing tomorrow."

Mary jumped between some potted palms as her father passed. He didn't need to know she was listening. As Matthew followed she pulled his hand, tugging him to her.

"That was nicely done." She liked having him so near.

"Practicing your eavesdropping, I see?" His eyes lit up. "He was resistant. I hated having to play on his guilt."

"You did what had to be done. Let's hope Mr. Ford does a better job. I can barely face Anna some days."

Matthew caressed her hand. "He will. Trust me."

Mary wanted him to kiss her.

"Well, I should be going." He looked like he might. "I can see myself out."

He leaned to her, and pressed his mouth against hers. When Mary wanted him to kiss her, this wasn't what she meant. This was so awkward, so sterile, so unpleasant. She wondered if he had ever properly kissed Lavinia. It was liked having her lips mashed. It had been so different with Kemal, and she wanted that from Matthew. She thought she should expect it from Matthew. He pulled away and smiled. She smiled back. Perhaps once they were married it would improve.

York Prison

Same time

The tea was over-brewed. John tried his best to swallow it, with a bite of bread, but he hadn't kept anything down since his fall. The pain was still excruciating. He wasn't hungry, but he couldn't take the repeated indignity of being sick each time he tried to eat. He fell back onto his cot and groaned.

Anna would be visiting soon. John hated that she would have to see him like this. He wondered if he could tell her not to come. It would be her last visit before leaving for Italy. She would finally see that he was an old man. He winced. Wallace had been looking at her picture. John had had to hide it, best he could without actually being able to move. He didn't want men like Wallace looking at Anna. John didn't even know what he was in for, but to be housed with a murderer it was nothing good.

Darkness started to creep in. He was so cold. He was walking in the wood near Downton and Anna's hand was in his. It was small and solid and warm. He could almost smell her. He smiled. Wallace was looking at him again. Anna was in his arms, in her nightgown with her long braid. She was tucked alongside him in their wedding bed. That bed had been so large and so soft. She glowed in the candlelight, though he would always prefer the moonlight.

Someone down the corridor was fighting. The screams didn't resonate in John's head. They went straight to his leg. Anna was walking ahead of him just out of reach. He couldn't keep up. He asked her to slow down a little, so they could walk together. She turned and smiled and kept going. Anna always waited for him. He turned on his cot. His leg. He gasped. This was tiresome and humiliating. This was his life. He could still take the morphine.

He couldn't take the morphine. He'd come this far. Anna was walking alone in the darkness. It was light. She was in a forest. He caught his breath. She was beautiful, all in blue. Birds were singing. It was spring, and the ground was damp. John was a lucky man. Sometimes when he saw her like this, he forgot he was her husband.

John shifted. He felt suddenly very cold. A darkness fell on the forest path. The birds and other creatures vanished. A cloud passed over the sun. Vera was standing before Anna. John tried to scream, to tell Anna to run, but he was frozen. His damn leg. Anna was so tiny next to Vera.

Anna stood her ground as Vera sneered. Vera was saying something, but if John knew Anna she would give as good as she got. Vera was angry. She picked up a rock and tossed it, hitting Anna's hat. John tried to lunge. The bitch. Anna picked up a larger rock, and hit Vera's shoulder. Vera lurched at Anna, pushing her into the mud. John was horrified. He heard screaming. Vera would win. Anna was so small and so clean. Vera would hurt her. They rolled into a deep puddle. Anna emerged, covered head to toe in mud but seemingly victorious. Vera grabbed her ankle and pulled her back in, smearing Anna's face in mud and manure. John heard screaming. Vera was hurting Anna. He was hot. His sheets were twisted. Vera would win. Damn the whore. She got was she deserved. Now Anna was on top, throwing mud and manure in great clumps at Vera's face. Her hair had fallen, and her dress was ruined. Vera was flagging. Years of dissipation had caught up with her. Dresses were ripped, and Vera's breast was exposed. As John had suspected the years had not been kind. She was slapping Anna. How dare she. Vera was sneaky. She might still win. John heard screaming. He gasped as Anna shoved Vera to the ground with all her might and put great handfuls of mud in her mouth. Anna would win. Anna was strong. She stood, kicked her opponent, and walked away, leaving Vera in the puddle. Anna had won.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

A week later

Anna's bedroom

Middle of the night

Anna rolled over. She had been asleep. Heavy, dreamless, blissful sleep, and now she wasn't. She looked at her clock. Four-fifteen, or so. She considered getting up, but the bed was warm, and it did feel good to stretch out. She wasn't sure why she was awake. She pulled the blankets tighter. She remembered. The new lawyer was arriving in the afternoon.

She stretched. Mr. Crawley had assured her that Mr. Ford was the best. If anyone could get Mr. Bates out of prison, it was him. She just had to trust him. The evidence rested with the testimony of a ghost. Mr. Crawley knew that. Mr. Crawley said Mr. Ford would be able to find a way to make that work. Anna hadn't been fully convinced. She just had to trust him. She had to have faith. Anna had always had faith. She wanted to have it again.

She shivered and pulled the blankets tight. She had seen John that morning. He looked awful. Ashen, sweaty. She had almost shut her eyes as the guards partially lifted-partially threw John into the visiting room. She didn't though. She wouldn't let him see her turn away. John had barely reacted when she told him about Mr. Crawley and Mr. Ford. She suspected he was abiding by his long-held nothing-so-cruel-as-false-hope mantra. And he was right. She hadn't told him about Vera and Thomas and Sir Richard. It was too bizarre. She'd leave that to the miraculous Mr. Ford. John was obviously in pain and refusing treatment. She rolled her eyes at the thought. She had asked, and he had said he could manage. She caught herself before snapping that obviously he couldn't, that taking something wasn't a sign of weakness, and what difference did it make now if he became an addict? She had smiled and said that of course he could. He always did. John had attempted a smile, and asked if she had ever read _The Confessions of an English_ _Opium Eater_.

A tear rolled down her cheek. Anna sighed. She had thought she was finished crying. It never actually helped. She didn't even feel sad so much as numb, and that made her sad. She reached for John's pillow. It was filthy, sweaty, stained. Long ago it had ceased to smell like him. Her heart started to race. She would never be able to touch him, smell him, feel him again. Now she had nothing. His scent had been replaced by hers. It was fading from his suits. It was gone. Sometimes she wasn't sure she remembered how he felt, how he smelled. When she tried for sleep, she would curl on her side, and imagine John wrapped just around her back, her shoulders against his chest, his lips near her neck in her hair. She imagined it better than she remembered it. She began to shake. Anna had never been sentimental, but when all she had were memories she had to keep them safe.

Some time the next day

Wine cellar

Mr. Carson was focused on his duties. He always was. An attention to duty, and detail, was what had allowed him to come this far in life. The Cheerful Charlies were a bad dream. They never happened.

He hummed a little. He was on his way to search for that special bottle of Châtaeuneuf du Pape. His Lordship had been looking down recently, and that would be just the thing. He smiled a little. A good butler could always anticipate. An intrinsic part of the job was to anticipate what would bring comfort and pleasure as well as pain and dismay. The ideal butler would do his utmost to maximize the well-being of the family, and minimize, nay, prevent shame or pain. That was why he had spoken to the police about all he had overheard regarding the late Mrs. Bates and Anna and Mr. Bates. It would never do if that business about Mr. Pamuk and Lady Mary got out, and Mr. Bates had gotten to the point that he might fail in his duty. That would never do. Sir Richard was a slippery devil, but ultimately getting rid of Mr. Bates had been for the best. He was rather pleased that Anna's name had been kept out of it. She was a nice enough girl.

He frowned. He was looking at the spot where the wine should be. It had been there two days earlier. He knew it had. He was not getting old and forgetful. He had noted it carefully in his inventory. He heard something. Giggling. Gasping. Heavy breathing. He frowned and walked towards the noise.

He kicked something. A lady's shoe. This wasn't good. He continued. He heard whispering. A necktie. Not good at all. A dress. He sighed. He wished footmen were older and sensible, like Mr. Molesley. Of course, if that were the case, they would be so much more difficult to train. A man's shoe. A collar. Braces and a shirt. He'd have to speak to Mrs. Hughes again about duty and instilling it in the maids. She had been rather negligent lately.

There was only one place this amorous young couple could be. He rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt. He had never seen anything so disgusting in his life. Had they no shame?

"Ethel!" His arm started to feel funny.

"Mr. Molesley!" He thought he was choking.

"Did you drink all that wine?" He clutched his chest and fell to his knees. He saw darkness.

Same time

Matthew's study

"So there's no doubt in your mind that this Bates fellow is innocent?" Robert Ford had finally arrived.

"Well….you see, no one would blame him if he had killed Mrs. Bates. But…" Matthew looked out the window. Rain, again. Or rather, still.

"That isn't what I asked. Do you think he killed her?"

"Does it matter? The trial was a disaster. Since when is an earl saying he's a fine man any sort of defense?" Matthew tapped his pen against the desk. "He could have done. It wouldn't surprise me." He looked out the window. "Bates is the sort of man you never really know."

"Interesting. But it isn't any sort of defense at all. That's why I'm here. This case was so bungled from the start that I have to see it put right." He coughed. "I've gone over the papers you sent, and the trial records, and frankly, the evidence could go either way, but the defense was a travesty." He leaned back with his feet on the edge of Matthew's desk. "I intend to move for a retrial based on the sheer volume of hearsay in the records. But it could mean a proper guilty verdict. I doubt it, but it could. Can this family of yours handle that?"

Matthew cleared his throat. His tapping increased. "They won't have to, if you're half the lawyer I know you are." He couldn't believe he was saying this. "There's been a development, you see." He cleared his throat again. "The late Mrs. Bates's ghost recently spoke to some of the staff, and then, well…what she said was so shocking, and so uncanny, we felt we had to at least follow it up with someone other than an estate lawyer."

Robert's usual monotone broke slightly with excitement. "They hired a medium? And Mrs. Bates told them who killed her?"

Matthew was puzzled, but relieved. He must not have sounded as insane as he had feared. "Well, yes, that's it exactly. But can we do anything with it?"

Robert took a pen and paper from his briefcase. He didn't look up as he started scribbling notes. "That was always your problem, Matthew. You always get so focused on facts. The secret to a good criminal defense is to never let the facts stand in the way of a good story. Juries love ghosts. Ghosts cannot lie and always know the whole story." He was scribbling rapidly. "This is the best thing that could have happened for this case. Now, who is this medium?"

York Prison

Bates's cell

Same time

John sensed brightness. It hurt his eyes, and they weren't even open. He had been asleep, or at least unconscious. The pain in his leg had diminished. Somewhat. He flexed it, and didn't gasp. It had deadened to a persistent dull throb. That was an improvement. He felt cold, even with the warmth. Was it sunlight? Sunlight through that little window that was causing this brightness? He was sweaty, and his blanket was a tangled mess about his legs. He had been holding Anna in his sleep, her back against his chest, his lips near her neck in her hair. She had smelled of lavender, and soap, and sweat, and he remembered it well, though he knew he would never smell her again.

John opened his eyes. It was sunlight. It was almost pleasant. The air hadn't lost its damp chill, but it felt almost warm. He had seen Anna earlier. Had that been today, or yesterday? He wasn't quite certain. He blinked. It hadn't been today. It had been morning, and the porridge had been cold. Today's porridge was burned. It had been yesterday. The guards had had to practically carry him into the visiting room. Anna had looked tired. John knew he looked old. He was old. Anna finally saw him for what he was. He would understand if she stopped visiting, but she wouldn't, and he loved her more for her refusal, even as he cursed himself for ageing her. He remembered wincing once, and she had reached for his hand. He pulled it away as the guard bellowed at them not to touch. John saw a large tear roll down her cheek. Damn Vera.

He needed to see her. The first and last thing he did each day was to look at her picture. It lived under his pillow. John shifted, and reached. It wasn't there. He slid his hand to the edge of the mattress. Perhaps it had fallen between the mattress and the wall. It wasn't there. His heart skipped a beat. Anna was gone.

She might not be. He needed to be calm. John reached under his blanket. Nothing. He leaned over the edge of the bed and looked at the floor. Nothing. He took a breath. It was only a picture. It was replaceable. He wasn't sure he could survive a day without seeing her. His eyes were feeling wet. He would not shed a tear, not when he was being watched. His eyes fell on Wallace. Then he saw her. Anna. On the shelf over the desk. She was bent, rumpled, and the corner was torn.

John was on his feet. "How dare you? What were you doing with her?" Images of vile depravity immediately came to John's mind. The man was, after all, in prison. There could only be one possible reason he needed Anna's picture.

"What?" Wally, or whatever his name was, put down his Bible. "What did I do?" He didn't even have the decency to stand.

"You took Anna's picture." John hobbled to the shelf. "You degenerate." He nearly fell on the desk reaching for it. She was beautiful. "If you ever touch her, if you ever think about touching her again, believe me, you will regret it." John hoped, even as he gasped in pain, that he had made his point. He really didn't need the hassle of indulging in violence.

Willie stood quickly. "No, no, that wasn't it." He was touching John. John shrunk back in revulsion. "You were having some sort of dream, and kept thrashing and screaming, and you had her picture all bunched up. You were about to rip her in half, so I got her, and kept her safe." He slapped John on the back. It was worse than he imagined. This cellmate was friendly, and he had almost destroyed Anna. "Now, you haven't stood on your own since I moved in here. I'm glad to see you up, but let's not overdo it." John was led back to his bed, clutching Anna's picture. Her smile was unwavering. His companion was not the insensitive clout he had assumed.

"So, John, fancy a game of chess?"

Slightly later

Crawley House

Mary had timed her arrival perfectly. She passed a tall, spare man who could only be the great Robert Ford in the village, but since they were strangers and not near the house they didn't have to be introduced. Cousin Isabel would be out for another hour at least. Matthew would be alone. He was coming down the hall as she laid aside her coat.

"Mary." He looked excited. "I didn't know you were coming." He was talking quickly. This was a good sign.

"I let myself in. I didn't think you'd mind." Mary smiled what she hoped was her most alluring smile. "I couldn't wait to hear how it went."

Matthew placed the paper he was carrying on the table and ran a hand through his hair. "It went well." He smiled. "It went very well."

Mary was skeptical. It was so bizarre. "You mean, he thinks he can work with the medium and this business with the late Mrs. Bates's ghost?"

Matthew nodded. "He does. He's that good. He was saying something about finding legal precedent for it. He'll need to talk to Anna, and to Bates of course, but he thinks it will work."

It was wonderful. Hope. "Oh Matthew, that's wonderful." Mary wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was slightly better than previous attempts. He would learn. "Have I told you recently how marvelous you are?" She kissed him lightly. "How intelligent, how handsome?"

"Well, I'm always ready to hear it." Those eyes. So deep and blue. That smile. That sharp insistent pressure on her lower abdomen. Molesley was apparently out as well…. "Matthew…." She whispered, a hand on his chest, a hand just at his waist. "What's this?" It would be a shame to waste it, and on such a happy day.

"Oh, that." He shifted away from her awkwardly. Nervously. "So sorry." He turned slightly from her, adjusting something at the waist of his trousers. "Molesley suggested this new fashion for a belt instead of braces, and I'm not sure it will catch on." He opened his arms to her. "This is definitely too large. I'm so sorry it hurt you."

Mary wasn't sure what to think. Dr. Clarkson had said all was well regarding that particular area of Matthew's anatomy, but she had yet to see any evidence. Perhaps all was well, physically, but Matthew simply couldn't respond to her. Perhaps he still felt guilty over Lavinia, or resented her over Kemal even though he had assured her otherwise. Mary could think of no other possibility as she went back into his arms, and rested her chin on his shoulder.

Later

Mrs. Hughes's sitting room

Elsie settled into her chair and poured another whiskey. She would need to write her niece for another bottle soon. She sighed, and knocked it back in one go. It burned. It had been another long day, and it wasn't even half over yet.

She knew thinking about it wouldn't help a thing, but she couldn't help herself. No matter how many times she went over her testimony, even so many months later, Elsie couldn't figure out how it had happened. It didn't make sense. She had not told those things she had overheard to the police, and Mr. Bates was no fool. He would not have incriminated himself. She sighed. She supposed she would just have to have faith in the medium, in that bitch Vera Bates's ghost, in Mr. Crawley's friend. Thinking about what she had said wouldn't solve a thing, not now. She wasn't sure she'd be able to face Mr. Bates ever again. It took almost all she had to look Anna in the eye.

A third dram might be in order. It looked to be a long evening. Mr. Carson had gone to fetch the wine about an hour ago and she hadn't seen him. She chuckled. He sometimes got distracted in the wine cellar. So many bottles to count. The only reasonable explanation for the prosecution knowing so much was that there was someone in the house feeding them information. Elsie had thought that at the time. It was only thing that made sense. Thomas or Miss O'Brien were the obvious culprits, but Thomas had been in France when Mrs. Bates first returned, and Miss O'Brien had, in a moment of shocking candor and compassion, confided how guilty she felt for her interference in writing to Mrs. Bates and how shocked she was by how the trial went. How her words had been twisted. Elsie couldn't believe it had been her. Sarah O'Brien was many things, but she wasn't so vindictive as to see a man hang.

Elsie poured another. It was nearly time for the dressing gong. This was unlike Mr. Carson. She laughed aloud. The honor of the house might suffer if they all put on their fine dresses late. Him and his honor. He was almost as bad as Mr. Bates. She saw Mr. Molesley scurry by. He had no reason to be at the house. She stood. Her head was feeling a little fuzzy, a little light. If only this business with that medium could be over. Ethel walked by, purposefully, but her hair was disheveled. What was Ethel doing at the house? Elsie hoped she didn't need food again. Mr. Carson would know what was going on. He knew everything she didn't know. It was past time for the gong. This was unlike him. She would have to ring it herself.

Elsie paused with her hand on the door knob. Her heart stopped. The honor of the house. Mr. Carson. Lady Mary and the Turkish gentleman. The things said only someone in the house could know. Vera Bates's scandal. Lady Mary. How had she not seen it before?

Much Later

The drawing room

The door opened. Edward entered. "Telegram, my lord."

Robert felt awful. He had had a headache for days. None of the ladies were speaking to him and he still was without a valet. Carson had chosen that afternoon to have a heart attack in the wine cellar, so he had had to make do with Edward to dress him and dinner had been horribly delayed. Isis had opted to remain in the courtyard all evening. Tomorrow would be no better. This would not be good news, unless perhaps Branson had had the good sense to die. All eyes were on him. Good news never came by telegram.

"What is it, dear?" Cora's honeyed tones were really starting to get to him.

Robert's heart skipped a beat. "Tom Branson's been shot." Silence. He looked at the four sets of female eyes focused on him. "He's dead."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The next morning

Mr. Carson's bedroom

The prognosis was not good. Dr. Clarkson had looked more grim than usual when he left. Elsie had asked if there was any point in moving Mr. Carson to the hospital. Dr. Clarkson had looked at the bed, and then raised his eyebrows at Mrs. Hughes, asking if they might have a word in private. She had taken him to her parlor and poured him a drink. While she waited for Dr. Clarkson to speak, she noticed he seemed more relaxed than he had the last time they had met. Less tense. The doctor had slowly, cautiously, confirmed Elsie's suspicions. It was surprising Mr. Carson had survived this heart attack. All they could do was keep him comfortable.

Elsie was now sitting in the rocking chair in Mr. Carson's bedroom. He hadn't moved in hours. He hadn't even regained consciousness. The servants quarters had long been quiet. The house had indeed managed without them. She had been there since the doctor left. She thought it odd, as she watched Mr. Carson sleep, that after all this time working together, she never even thought of him as Charles. She knew many of the staff thought they didn't have Christian names. Mrs. Hughes was, in many ways, an act. Mr. Carson was not.

Elsie looked at his bedside table. Always orderly. Her own room was rarely in order. She would never tell, but sometimes she didn't put away her nightgown. Some mornings she left the drawers of the bureau ajar. Mr. Carson's room was disturbingly neat. Nothing unessential out of a drawer. Slippers just under the edge of the bed. Brushes and pins and whatever it was men needed to dress in rows. On the table was a pitcher and glass of water, a small light, and a copy of _Bleak House_. Elsie rolled her eyes. She never could understand Mr. Carson's fondness for Dickens. She had picked up _Great_ _Expectations_ once in the library, read two paragraphs while still standing on the ladder, and decided she just didn't have the time. What was it Mr. Bates had said about Dickens? She looked out the window. Maudlin sentimental nostalgia for a myth of the past? She wasn't sure she'd take it that far, but she did prefer something that got to the point in good time.

Mr. Bates. It had to have been Mr. Carson. No one else could have known the sorts of things the Crown knew. She and Miss O'Brien had been very careful when they spoke to the police, as had everyone. They had not volunteered any information. Mr. Carson had put the honor of the blessed Lady Mary higher than Mr. Bates's and Anna's right to happiness. She was tempted to hold a pillow to his face.

Elsie saw him blink. He was struggling to move. She sighed, and stood. Duty called.

"What…why are you in here?"

"Because you had a heart attack." She propped his pillows and poured some water. "And you are to stay in bed."

Mr. Carson's brow furrowed. His voice was weak. "Stay in bed? I can't stay in bed." He was trying to sit up. "Someone has to tend his lordship. And wine is missing."

Elsie took a deep breath. "It will still be missing in a week. You're not going anywhere."

"Mrs. Hughes. You do not seem to understand. There is a thief, possibly thieves, at large in the house at this moment. The honor of the house is at stake, and I must do whatever I can to save it." All the while he was wheezing and pale. "Things….happen…when the order of the house is allowed to slip."

Elsie rolled her eyes. "When has the order of this house ever been allowed to slip?" She started folding the extra blanket. Really, neat as it was, the room could use a thorough cleaning.

Mr. Carson fell back onto his pillows, muttering. "All started with Bates." Of course it had. "Still can't believe his lordship just hired someone, without consulting the butler. Doesn't matter if they were old friends. Undermined my authority." He gasped for air. "All started with Bates. I had no choice but to tell the police." Elsie's heart sank. It made perfect sense; she was a fool for not having seen it before. "It all went wrong when he wasn't hanged. Now we still have Anna, keeping it alive. If she'd just gone away like she said it would have died down. Now everyone will know about Lady Mary and the Turkish gentleman. She didn't kill him. She was young and he was in her bedroom. What choice did she have?" Elsie didn't think Mr. Carson realized she was still there. She needed to remind him, heart attack or no heart attack.

"She had the choice to scream! A choice she should have made!" Mr. Carson blinked, startled, and looked at her. He had forgotten she was in the room. "And you! You have let me believe I was responsible for his verdict! For the death sentence! For ruining Anna's life!" She was still holding the blanket. Again the thought of smothering the old fool came to mind. "You were just playing along with that business with the medium, and letting me think I was going mad!"

Mr. Carson coughed. "All I did was tell the police what I knew. Imagine what would have happened if that business about Lady Mary had come out?" He looked ashen.

"And it may still, and she will bear it. I can't believe, Mr. Carson, after all these years, you would put the so-called honor of this house over the happiness and good name of an innocent and decent man. What sort of notion of honor is that?"

His eyes started to pop out. "I…I…" His face went white then red then grey. "I…." He clasped his left arm in his right hand and fell back onto the bed.

The same time

Servants Hall and environs

Alfred jumped. The kitchen was so noisy, and Daisy seemed to be everywhere at once. Even though he had worked at Downton on and off since Mr. Bates's first departure, and would be working there again once Mr. Crawley and Lady Mary were married, he never did get used to the noise. Things were so quiet at home, with just him and Mrs. Bird. He was surprised to receive the message that Lord Grantham needed him to attend him in Ireland, but pleased. Getting out of town would be good. He shouldn't be glad Mr. Carson had been taken sick, and he certainly wasn't proud to have been the cause, but he was relieved that Mr. Carson wasn't about. Alfred wasn't sure he could face him.

"All set, Mr. Moseley?" He jumped. "Easy now. It's just Dublin." Miss O'Brien shook her head and sat at the table.

Alfred had had his breakfast before leaving Crawley House, but another spot of tea wouldn't hurt. Maybe a sausage. The atmosphere was so different without Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson. Everyone was talking more, joking. He laughed, but he wasn't sure why. He hoped one day he'd fit in, have friends.

Miss O'Brien was excited about their trip. She was more energetic than usual, even seemed to be smiling. Alfred remembered her once saying that she wished Lord and Lady Grantham travelled more. As for him, well, they spoke English in Ireland. He thought. He'd have to remember to pick up something for Charlie.

"The car's ready." Alfred jumped at the sound of Mr. Pratt's voice and spilled his tea. "We need to load if I'm to get you lot to the station in time for the 9 o'clock." It was dripping into his lap. He blotted as best he could. Miss O'Brien rolled her eyes. He smiled. He was accustomed to it.

He watched as the footmen loaded. Still no sign of Mrs. Hughes. His trousers were drying. At least the stain wouldn't show. He and Miss O'Brien made their way to the front of the house, and, once Lord and Lady Grantham were settled they climbed into the front seat. Miss O'Brien glared at him as he stepped on her foot. He tried to give her more room, but managed to jab her with his elbow. The car was moving. He closed his eyes and sighed. He had forgotten to tell Ethel he was leaving. She wanted to keep things casual. His father would tell her.

"Miss O'Brien…they…they speak English in Ireland, don't they?"

He heard her take a deep breath. He knew it was stupid as soon as he said it. Mr. Branson spoke English. "After a fashion, they do. But you won't have time to worry about it. We're just going long enough to see Mr. Branson buried and collect Lady Sybil." He didn't think he and Miss O'Brien would ever be friends. He asked too many stupid questions.

The car came to sudden halt. Alfred's knees hit the dashboard and he managed to slap Miss O'Brien as he grabbed his hat. She swore. One of the footmen was running behind them, waving his arms, shouting. Lord Grantham jumped out. Alfred wasn't sure if he should follow or not. Mr. Bates always knew what to do, not that he would be jumping out of any automobiles. Miss O'Brien elbowed him. He got out.

"What do you mean, Mr. Carson's dead?"

York Prison

Same time

"Checkmate." Willie leaned back in his chair. "For someone so smart, you sure are bad at chess, Johnny."

John looked at the board and sighed. It was true. He was horrible at chess. He always had been. "I know." More than anything, he hated being called Johnny. Only his mother could call him that. It wasn't a chess board, it was drawn on the tabletop.

"So, you don't know who killed her?" It was his favorite topic. Solving the crimes they were alleged to have committed. "I mean, obviously it wasn't you. I've never known a man to lose so badly and to make so many daft moves."

John sighed again. "No." Willie was of course guilty. He had admitted as much and taken to religion, how sincerely, John wasn't sure. He also wasn't sure what Willie was guilty of; asking was in poor taste. "Vera was the sort of woman who made enemies easily, but I don't know who would have taken the trouble to kill her."

Willie cracked his knuckles. It drove John mad, but really, in so far as cellmates went, Willie wasn't bad. "How's your leg? Isn't it time you did your stretches?" He did tend to fuss.

"I'll do them later." John picked up his king. The crown was chipping. "Not that it matters." The chess pieces were made of soap.

"It does. You don't want to be an old cripple for your Anna, do you?"

Really Willie was an old woman sometimes. John tapped the piece against the table. Anna would at some point realize she was tied to an old man, a useless old man who could give her nothing. He could give her something. Pain, misery, anxiety. They should have hanged him. Murray really couldn't do anything right.

"Anna is the chess player, not me." He had taught her when he returned from living with Vera. Anna had outstripped John after two nights of lessons. He hated losing, but he accepted it. His mind did not work like Anna's, much as he valued logic and process.

Willie leaned back in his chair and dug at his armpit. He probably had bugs. "Well, if you can't think of who killed her, have you got any idea how they got all those things they used against you?" The cell stank. "I mean, you're no fool, you wouldn't have said those things, and it sounds like your friends didn't know what they were going to be asked." They hadn't. "So obviously there was a snitch in the house."

John ran his hands through his hair. It was greasy. His leg was throbbing. Obviously. The house had eyes and ears everywhere. He sat up straight. Obviously. A divorced man. A sudden mysterious death. Lady Mary's secret. He had had never trusted him. Obviously.

"Mr. Carson." Damn him. "The butler, Mr. Carson."

The lights dimmed.

A week later

Mid-morning

Anna's bedroom

Anna couldn't believe she had agreed to this. She was to be a witness at a séance to attest to the identity of Vera's ghost. Mr. Crawley and his friend had persuaded her. She thought they thought John was guilty, and this was all they had. She sat on the edge of the bed. It was all they had. Vera was helping.

The medium, Madame something, Anna couldn't remember, would be there soon. It would be a spectacle. Lord and Lady Grantham were still away, and Mr. Carson had just been buried two days ago. Anna was glad he wasn't around to see this. His death had been sudden, but not entirely unexpected. Mrs. Hughes hadn't been herself since. Anna patted her hair. Perhaps there had been more to their relationship than she had thought, but she didn't really believe it. Some of the maids had been whispering. A medium. Vera saying John wasn't guilty. Sometimes Anna felt like she'd woken up in someone else's nightmare.

She couldn't remember not loving John. She remembered, but she didn't remember what it felt like. One night she had gone to bed, cheerful but quiet, talking until Gwen had fallen asleep. She had closed her eyes, and unbidden Mr. Bates had appeared. She had fallen asleep only lightly thinking of him, just that he was there and she was so glad and there was something she wanted to tell him. She had felt different, dreamy, when she had awakened the next day, but she wasn't sure why. She had realized it as she was tucking her hair under her cap, and her arms had frozen. She remembered starring at her reflection, to see if anything was different. She remembered feeling nervous and peaceful all at once.

Anna turned to the window. It was beginning to rain. It had rained all through the service for Mr. Carson. She had written to John, but she still hadn't mentioned this business with Vera's ghost. She would not get his hopes up. Her faith was so weak. Daisy was so excited for the séance. Mr. Ford had asked that all the servants who had had contact with the late Mrs. Bates be there. At first Anna was glad Mr. Carson wouldn't be there to see it, but then she remembered that he had initially tracked down the medium, Mrs. Jennings. This one, however, was the one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used. The outcome might be different. Mr. Carson might have been trying to give them faith. As much as she wanted to believe John would be released, Anna was afraid to believe too much. Nothing was so cruel as false hope, but this was insane.

Anna lay back on the bed. Some days, she ached for John. It had been that way all along. There were times, in the beginning, she would will him to touch her, just brush against her. He almost never complied. She wasn't sure which was better: the ache only grew if he were to, perhaps, casually brush against her at the table or in the hall. The rain turned into a storm. She chuckled. Of course it was storming. Vera was coming. Sometimes Anna blamed herself. If she hadn't pursued John, he never would have sought a divorce and they would be as they were. She put her hands over her eyes. No. That never would have lasted. She was amazed it had lasted as long as it had.

She shifted. She shouldn't have thought about that. No good could possibly come of thinking about something they would never again share. She shifted. John was so intoxicating, even across the prison table, even with dirty hair and in need of a shave. Perhaps more so. He reminded her a bit of how he looked in bed, afterwards. She groaned. She shouldn't have thought about this. She tried not to, and she usually lost. The way he starred at her. She closed her eyes and she could feel his look. Searing. John had whispered to her, years ago, when they were alone before Vera was a reality, that he liked knowing that she was able and adept with her hands. Able to deal with these feelings without his help. Anna had grinned into his kiss. She had been glad too. She had been able to imagine what it might be like if were his body, and not her fingers and imagination. Now that she knew the reality she could barely stand the imaginings. If she dealt with it on her own, she would feel worse. Sadder, emptier, lonelier. She wished she could suppress that side of her, but she couldn't. John had said, or written, or both, that she was part or perhaps entirely nymph. She groaned. A hand strayed to her breast. She felt it tighten. She shouldn't. There wasn't time. She kept her eyes closed. A hand strayed to her waist. The way John held her there, his rough hands on her skin, sent shivers to her fingertips. A hand strayed to her thigh. She felt herself loosening, widening. She mustn't. Dampening. There wasn't time. A tear fell.

Anna moved so her head was just dangling over the edge of the bed. She liked the dizziness. She heard voices drifting up the stairs. Her eyes were still shut but she saw swirling lights. It was dark out. She felt hot and cold. The door to her room blew open, slapping against the wall. Vera had arrived.

That afternoon

Matthew's office

"Well, that was unlike anything I've ever witnessed." Robert Ford leaned against the bookcase.

"It was, wasn't it? Mrs. Hughes was right. That Vera Bates was a nasty piece of work." Matthew put his feet on his desk. His mother would scold him if she ever knew. "The way the medium spat at Anna. And all the smoke rings. Where did those come from? I've never seen anything quite like it." He could use some tea, but cousin Robert had borrowed Molesley and it had been so long since he had made his own tea, Matthew wasn't sure he remembered how.

"Hmm?" Robert had been looking out the window. "Indeed." He sat. "I think our question now is what to do with the information the late Mrs. Bates offered."

Matthew ran his hands through his hair. "I've been thinking about that. Is there any way we can get Mrs. Bates's testimony entered into the record?"

"Which one? The late or the present?"

"The late, obviously." Matthew blinked. It was Mrs. Bird's afternoon off.

"Obviously."

Matthew tapped his pencil on the desk. He needed that tea. How hard could it be?  
"Robert, would you mind terribly if we moved to the kitchen?" He jumped to his feet.

Robert looked puzzled. "No, but why?"

"I could really use some tea, and Molesley went to Dublin with Cousin Robert as he's between valets at present, and Mrs. Bird and mother are both out and…"

"Say no more. I've made my own tea plenty of times." He stood. "Lead the way!"

Once in the kitchen, it went better than Matthew had expected. The stove was in working order, and Robert found the tea. Matthew was somewhat peckish, and found some biscuits. Really it was all a bit much to take in. Mrs. Bird had made his favorite cake as well.

"So, about this Thomas Barrow the late Mrs. Bates says killed her. What do you know about him?"

Matthew poured the milk onto the table rather than into the pitcher. "Well, he was a footman at the Abbey, then when Mr. Bates was sentenced, he became Lord Grantham's valet. He was dismissed recently, but I don't have all the details."

Robert picked up the cloth and cleaned the spill. "Did he serve in the trenches?"

"Yes, he was in a medical unit that was attached to my regiment." Robert took his tea black. Matthew never could understand that. "As it happens we had tea in a fox hole once." Thomas had called him the future Earl of Grantham.

Robert was rummaging in the ice box. "I say, there's more of that roast beef from last night! Fancy a sandwich?"

"That would be perfect with these biscuits!" The kettle boiled. Matthew poured the water into the tea pot, spilling. "I wasn't entirely surprised that Mrs. Bates implicated Sir Richard Carlisle. My dealings with him….well…"

"Wasn't he engaged to your Lady Mary?" Robert was chewing. "You've moved the wedding date again?"

"Yes, on both counts. What with Mr. Branson and Mr. Carson dying, moving the date was only right." Matthew poured. "Carlisle has an obvious motive for killing Mrs. Bates." He couldn't believe Mrs. Bates, either of them, hadn't mentioned Mr. Pamuk. It would only be a matter of time before it all came out. "You see, Lady Mary…well…before…" He needed something stronger than tea. He cleared his throat. "Do you remember, before the war, there was just a passing mention in the papers of a Turkish diplomat who died while a guest of Lord and Lady Grantham?"

"Dimly." Robert took his tea black. "What's that have to do with Richard Carlisle?"

Matthew cleared his throat. "Well, you see…he knew that Mr. Pamuk didn't die in his own bed." He was still surprised Sir Richard hadn't published. "He died in Lady Mary's bed."

Robert spat tea all across the table. "What?" He coughed. "You mean she…and he…right in the middle?"

"I'm unclear on the details, but yes, I believe that's about what happened. No one knew but Lady Grantham and Anna. Cousin Robert and I didn't learn of it until just after Christmas. Somehow, Sir Richard got hold of the story and was blackmailing Mary with it." The connection to Vera Bates was odd. His mother would be home soon. He had been in France when most of this had happened. Mr. Bates had suddenly left with his wife, he had heard.

"Very decent of you to marry her. She must really be something special."

Matthew wasn't sure he liked Robert's insinuation. "We've all made mistakes, Robert. Do I really need to remind you about that girl you were chasing at university? The one who worked in the bookshop?" He had another biscuit. "I love Mary, and it makes no difference to us." Except that every time they kissed or were close, he felt lacking, he wondered how Mary would compare him to Pamuk, if he too would die in her bed. He had never done anything like that before, and Mary would know. He had another slice of roast beef.

"You're a decent chap, Matthew. But back to the point. What does Sir Richard Carlisle have to do with Vera Bates?"

Matthew added milk to his tea. It clicked as the spoon tapped the edge of the cup. She had known, and she had made threats. That was why Mr. Bates had left. No one had ever bothered to ask him, and he wasn't the sort to offer information. "Well, the network of servants is very small, and somehow the story got out. It wasn't Anna…don't ask why, it wasn't. Somehow Vera Bates must have known." If it had all come out at the trial, Mary would have been humiliated, but this misery would have been avoided.

"And what about this Thomas character? Is there any more custard?"

"Here. Mother knows him; we should ask her when she gets in. More importantly, can we use this testimony in court? Care for a pickle?"

Robert nodded. "I don't see why we couldn't. We have a wronged man, his wife's ghost, his beautiful young wife—and I'd kill for Anna Bates—and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's medium. It will make my career." He took a bite of cheese.

"Yes, quite. But is it legal?"

Matthew heard the back door close. "Boys?" She always called them boys, even after a war. His mother was early. She entered the kitchen. "Is what legal? What are you up to?" She saw them, and gasped. "What have you done to the kitchen?"

Slightly later

Dr. Clarkson's bedroom

Thomas rolled over, panting. Really, the man was insatiable. Three times today already, and they hadn't even had dinner. He was getting raw, and he knew he was walking strangely. People were starting to wonder, too. Miss O'Brien knew. Mrs. Crawley knew. He was certain others did. He didn't like to hide, but living like this in such a small town was a terrible risk. Miss O'Brien knew everything. They needed to get away, the sooner the better.

"Dicky…." He nuzzled behind his ear, the way he knew Richard liked. "I was thinking we ought to get away. Go somewhere where we could live out in the open, and do some good."

"Oh?" Richard reached to tickle Thomas's chest. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Well…" He gasped. Richard would pay for this later. "Mrs. Crawley had some brochures from a medical mission in the Congo. We could really do some good there."

Richard laid back and thought for a minute. "You're right, we could. And I've thought for a while now that it was time to get out of this village." He rolled to face Thomas. "But I know a place you could do more good right now."


End file.
